Lord of Blood MkII
by Rahvin Dashiva
Summary: Some of you may have seen, or even read, the first version of this story. It was never finished, because the characters were too flat, and it felt like just a series of contextless fights. So here is a complete rewrite!
1. Chapter 1

Lord of Blood

Lord of Blood

Part 1

Rain lashed down from the roiling sky, turning the streets to sludge. The sharp spatter of the thin droplets was almost deafening, a din that filled the air to bursting. The soft squelch of Varakash's footsteps punctuated the drone of the downpour almost rhythmically as he made his way through the winding roads and alleys of the small village.

The hunger gnawed at him. It filled him up, suffusing every inch of his body. It clawed at him from the inside out.

He was painfully aware of the inhabitants of the village, his vampiric senses hearing their slightest movements behind the closed shutters of their windows. He could smell them, the torturous scent of fresh, warm life smothering his nostrils like cloying perfume.

Ahead of him, the door to the village's only inn creaked open. A cloaked man stepped tentatively out, and the door slammed shut behind him. This close to the Wastes, night was not safe.

Varakash's eyes snapped to the man's back as he walked cautiously through the mud. The thirst rose like a beast in his mind, in his chest, and he gritted his teeth to stop his long canines sliding out. A strangled groan gasped from behind his clenched teeth, and he had to press himself roughly against the wall of a house to stop the man from seeing him.

The nearness, the sheer humanity of the man ran through his senses like fire. He had resisted the thirst for over a month, and it was taking its toll on him. At some level, he was aware of his mind deteriorating, beginning the spiral into madness, but he was powerless to do anything about it.

Except to feed.

The hot, thick blood of the man ahead of him would stave off the madness. The vermin that infested the streets and gutters could keep him alive, but their blood was weak, thin, inadequate. His kind was not meant to live off rats. That brought the madness almost as quickly as not feeding at all. But it could sustain him without the need to kill.

Unable to stop himself, Varakash pushed off from the wall of the house and staggered after the man, keeping pace with him a dozen metres behind. The thirst was taking control again. He couldn't afford for that to happen. Even on the northern borders, an entire family slaughtered in their own home caused talk. Dangerous talk, that spread too fast.

And no matter how much he hated himself, he knew he couldn't stop it from happening.

Except…

Feed now, before the man was out of reach, locked away behind thick walls.

The thirst stabbed blades of fire into his heart. Kill the man, drain him dry so that others might live. Slake the thirst before it took control completely. The man, or another family could die at his unwilling hand.

Memories surfaced painfully. Three girls, not one above ten years, sprawled on the floor in front of him, crimson with their own spilt blood. A grandmother, dead in her chair, neck wrenched viciously to the side, half her throat torn out. Two men, one the grandfather, one the father, crumpled in a gory heap at the door, the centre of a pool of their own congealing blood. The mother, torn almost to shreds.

He had done that. That, and others. He couldn't let it happen again. The man, or another family might die.

The thirst raged.

The rich, heady scent of the man smothered him. He hated himself for what he was about to do, for what he had to do. He had no choice. If he did not, the madness and the hunger would take him, and he would do worse. So much worse.

The man had stopped by the heavy door of a house. He was fumbling beneath his cloak for something. Keys.

Even as he loathed himself, Varakash felt anticipation rise in him. His long, sharp canines slid from their sheaths. His pace quickened, his long, white hair dripping with rain as he took step after heavy, eager step.

He hated it. He hated what he had become. He hated it, and at the same time, part of him loved it. Loved the surprise and fear that twisted the man's face as he saw him. Loved the strangled scream that he cut off with vice-like fingers. Loved the feel of the man's lower jaw cracking and snapping beneath his grip.

Then he bit down, and nothing meant anything.

Blood flooded his mouth, sweeter than nectar. It coursed through him, infusing him with strength and energy. At that moment, locked to the man, hearing his heart beat its last, pitiful spasms, he was at peace. The anguish washed away, the hate, the self-loathing, all of it was forgotten amidst the warmth of the blood.

The man's heart faltered finally. The blood slowed to a trickle, and then stopped. Varakash let the man fall, his corpse hitting the street with a wet thump, face-down in the sludge.

The thirst was still there, burning at the back of his mind. It never truly left. In some ways, it reassured him. The day he stopped fighting the thirst would be the day he lost the last shreds of his humanity.

He straightened, running a hand over his mouth to wipe away the blood. The madness had receded along with the thirst. He knew why he was here, now. He knew what he had to do. First, though, there was the body to dispose of.

Footsteps splashed slowly behind him. He turned. A tall man stood in the street, wrapped in a brown cloak. His blond hair stirred faintly in the wind, held back from his square features in a loose ponytail. One hand rested on the wooden haft of the plain axe at his belt.

"Thorne," he said. "How long have you been here?"

The Norseman gave a smile that left his ice blue eyes untouched. "Long enough to see you take him," he said, nodding to the body. "Why do you torture yourself like this?"

"We may be predators, Thorne, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.."

Thorne shook his head. "This is who we are, Varakash. You can't change that."

"I know," Varakash sighed. "But this life is all that mortals have, and we take it away from them that we might live another few weeks. Tell me, does that seem fair?"

Thorne gave a low laugh. "Since when has the world been fair? Their own lords take their lives to stock their palaces with jewels and gorge themselves on delicacies, while the peasantry starves. Is that any less fair than what we do? We take a single life each week, each two weeks, so that we can live. Not so that we can live in palaces and feast every day, but so that we don't die. We do what we do out of necessity, not out of cruelty or ambition."

"But how many have we killed over the years?" said Varakash. "Sixty a year, between us, for four long millennia. Over two hundred thousand have died to feed us. Two hundred thousand."

Thorne closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "So many," he said softly. "But they are with the Gods now. And over those millennia, we are but a footnote in the reaper's tally. How many deaths have they caused amongst themselves through their petty wars? How many through oppression? How many through famine?"

"You're right," said Varakash, "but how many of those wars were the result of two single people? A war needs soldiers, a king needs followers; they can't happen by themselves. We need nothing but ourselves."

"Not true anymore, my friend," said Thorne. "You felt her call, the same as I did. The same as all the old ones did. How many go to join her, like us? Something is going to happen. Something big."

Varakash looked down at the body. "Whatever she plans, it will be momentous," he agreed. "She was ever one for that. But for now, there are more important things to attend to. If someone sees us like this, standing over the body of this man, it will cause an uproar."

"And you know how much I dislike an uproar," Thorne laughed quietly. "Very well, let's get him out of the way."

"The river?" said Varakash, with a slight smile. Thorne would like nothing more than some excitement to punctuate their journey. They had lost the witch hunters at Praag; or what remained of it after the invasion from the Wastes; and Thorne was itching for something else to spice up the monotony of travelling. Varakash would like nothing more than to complete their journey with as little disturbance as possible. He reached down and grabbed one of the body's arms.

"As good as anything," replied Thorne, taking a leg. It didn't need both of them to carry the body – Varakash could lift a fully-armoured Knight over his head with one arm, barded warhorse and all, if he needed to – but it was considerably less awkward. Together, they carried the body down the street, sticking to the shadows at the base of the buildings so as not to be seen.

The river wound through the northern half of the village, it's meagre yield of fish the only reason for the village's existence. Warehouses and docks ran the length of the banks, home to the fishing boats and nets. The docks were larger than the other buildings of the village, and the rain dripped from their slate roofs loudly.

The two vampires came to a halt in the gap between two of the docks. Varakash glanced at Thorne. "We need a weight to hold him under," he said.

Thorne thought for a moment. "No, wait. I have an idea. Come with me." Varakash followed him into the dock to their left, dumping the body next to one of the fishing boats. "If we just throw him in, he'll wash up somewhere. Maybe somewhere bigger than this little village."

"So what do you have in mind?"

Thorne smiled. "We tie him underneath one of the boats. By the time they find him, we'll be long gone. If they find him. The fish are supposed to be nasty around here."

Varakash echoed Thorne's smile, though he didn't feel it inside. Playing the murderer didn't appeal to him. He couldn't bring himself to see the bodies as just objects, like Thorne did. He supposed it was one of his failings, but it was one that he didn't want to lose. It helped remind him that he had been human, once.

"Just wait here until I get back," said Thorne. He snatched up a coil of rope from the boat, and a handful of nails. Grabbing the body, he took a step and dived into the inky water.

Varakash stood back, closing his eyes. His fingers brushed the hilt of the sword at his waist. It was a simple length of battered steel, sharpened on both sides and with a stabbing point. He had taken it from a Kislevite warrior, almost three months ago now, before the onset of the invasion from the Wastes. The Kislevite had set out to slay the pair of vampires, but had found himself decidedly outmatched when they finally tired of the pursuit and allowed him to catch them. The man had hunted them for nearly thirty years, long enough for him to grow frail and old, and Varakash had thought it would be cruel to let him die without ever getting to fight them. The Kislevite died an honourable death at the end of it all, in single combat with what he saw as a creature of evil.

The human's sword had broken Varakash's during the fight, though, and he thought it only appropriate to take up the Kislevite's blade after his death. Something of a memento, he supposed, to one of the few times when he had had a goal, if only for a few decades. The Kislevite had broken the monotony of their aimless wanderings, given them a spice of excitement. It had been something to do.

Thorne slipped from beneath the water and pulled himself up next to Varakash. He no longer had the rope or the nails. Water streamed off his sodden clothes as he brushed his hands together. "There," he said. "He won't be troubling anyone anytime soon."

Varakash looked at him, then turned for the door. "Come on," he said. "We should keep going."

Thorne caught up with him as he left the building. "We don't even know _where_ we're going," he laughed lowly.

Varakash glanced at him. "East," he said. "Towards her call."

"East," said Thorne sarcastically. "Do you know where we are right now? Where we're headed if we keep up this direction? We can't just keep going with only a vague direction to head in, Varakash."

They both fell silent as they passed the village inn. Refugees had it packed full, and it practically pulsated with humanity to the vampires' senses. Varakash shuddered, then turned to Thorne again.

"We take the High Pass through the mountains," he said. "After that, we'll be close enough that her call will be the only direction we need."

"The High Pass," snorted Thorne. The Everchosen's army came through that pass. How are we going to feed? There'll be nothing left alive in those mountains bigger than a rat, pass or no."

"Then we'll feed on rats," Varakash said simply.

"Rats? _Rats?_" Thorne spat. "However much you seem to like it, I'm not living off vermin. Not to mention the fact that our minds will be in tatters before we're even through the damn pass. Five weeks, you lasted, and by then you were ready to succumb to insanity. I'm damn sure that crossing the mountains will take a sight longer than that."

Varakash was about to answer, when a cloaked shape stepped from the shadows ahead. It levelled a leather-clad arm at them, the tip of a handbow quarrel glinting in the moonlight.

"Found you, monsters," it growled, and then fired.

The quarrel flashed from the handbow with a _thwap_.

Thorne looked down in shock at the quarrel where it protruded from his chest, just below his ribcage. "Silver…" he groaned, and dragged the quarrel out of himself. Smoke wisped upwards from the ragged wound it left behind. The tip of the quarrel had melted away. He dropped into the mud. "Silver-tipped quarrels," he grated. "You've learned, von Diesricht. Six inches higher, and you would have found my heart."

Varakash eased his sword in its scabbard, baring an inch of steel. "I though we lost you in Praag, Witch Hunter," he said coldly. He stepped forwards to stand between Thorne and von Diesricht.

The Witch Hunter's mouth twisted in a sneer. "I thought so too, vampire. For a while, I had given up hope of hunting you down. Two years hounding you across the face of the Old World, only for you to slip away. But I know where you are going, vampire," he spat, "all your wanderings, they weren't random. It took me four long weeks alone, but I pieced together where you are heading."

"And where would that be?" said Thorne, harshly. His chest still smoked, but the wound was already starting to heal. His pale flesh was knitting together even as he stood there.

Von Diesricht holstered the handbow. "You're heading across the mountains," he said triumphantly. "I don't know why, but that matters not. It is enough for me that you creatures of evil desire to cross. Whatever you plan, I will not let you achieve it."

Varakash put a hand out to stop Thorne from drawing his axe. "I don't care about your aims, von Diesricht. And I don't care to kill unnecessarily, either. You must know that you can't kill us, even with your silver quarrels."

"You are already dead," von Diesricht spat. "All I must do is put you back where you belong. Sigmar will give me strength enough to banish you monsters back to the hell you came from."

"Sigmar will give you strength?" said Varakash. "I was ancient before your 'god' was even born, von Diesricht. Sigmar is no god. He will not give you strength. I am giving you your life, Witch Hunter, and you throw it back at me."

Von Diesricht snarled, "You die for that, monster." His hand whipped down beneath his cloak and came up gripping a long pistol.

Varakash was moving before he had the gun clear of its holster. He flowed towards the Witch Hunter in a lightning-fast blur. One hand slammed down on von Diesricht's wrist, knocking the pistol from his grip. The other snaked out to snatch the Witch Hunter's throat. He lifted him up off the floor.

"I told you, von Diesricht," he said. "You can't kill us." He grabbed the human's wrist with his free hand and wrenched it up. Keeping the Witch Hunter raised in an iron grip, he shifted his hand to von Diesricht's index finger. A sharp _crack_ sounded, and Varakash winced at the Witch Hunter's low groan of pain. Two more followed.

"We are leaving now," Varakash said. "Do not try to follow. I let you live now, but I won't be so lenient the next time." He dropped von Diesricht in the sludge. The man glared pure hate up at him, cradling his mangled hand against his chest.

"I will follow you to the ends of the world itself, vampire," he said, gritting his teeth. "If it takes me the rest of my life, I will hunt you down and end you. This I swear now by Sigmar."

Varakash shook his head sadly. "We are not evil, von Diesricht, no matter what you think, but come after me again and I will kill you without a second thought." He stepped past the Witch Hunter, gesturing for Thorne to follow.

Neither vampire spoke until they were out of sight of the Witch Hunter and on the main road out of the village. As they passed the stone guide post that passed for the boundary of the village, Thorne looked at Varakash.

"Why did you let him live?" he asked.

Varakash did not answer for a long moment. "He didn't need to die," he said eventually. "And I don't kill what I don't need to. By the time he's recovered enough to track us, we'll be far enough ahead that it won't matter. Once we're past the mountains, how will he find us?"

Thorne nodded. "I thought as much. But what if he rouses others against us? A crusade cannot be beneficial, whatever she plans to do with those who answer her call."

Varakash shrugged. "That is something that we will have to deal with as it comes, my friend. I will not change who I am. Not even for her."


	2. Chapter 2

Lord of Blood

Part 2

The World's Edge Mountains loomed large in front of them, a jagged vista spearing up from the barren, gloomy horizon. The wind howled down from them, buffeting the two vampires as they walked through the pre-dawn fog. The few sparse trees that lined the rough trail winding up into the mountains bent freely in the wind, seeming to undulate, almost.

Varakash glanced at the sky again. Behind the ever-present clouds was a faint glow; the first light of day gathering itself. He looked over at Thorne. "We need shelter," he said, piercing the silence that had settled on them for the past hours.

Thorne started, and looked up for himself. He growled at the light. "We needed shelter an hour ago, Varakash. Why didn't you tell me how light it was getting?"

"We have plenty of time," Varakash replied. "The sun won't rise for another hour, at least. And why should I watch out for you? I _made_ you. If you walk into the sun because you're lost in your thoughts, then that's your problem."

Thorne grunted. "Another hour? Not likely. Look at the clouds. In fact, just look at the ground. Where are we going to shelter now?"

"There looks to be a farm or somesuch up ahead. We'll use the barn."

"A barn? By the Four Gods, Varakash, after four and a half thousand years, your sense of high living is woefully underdeveloped. Look at us now; creeping around farms, sheltering in chicken coops. If you'd have listened to me back in Praag, we could be riding up here in velvet-lined coaches right now."

"And von Diesricht would have had an even easier time of finding us," Varakash countered. "We left on foot because we had to, Thorne, remember? And besides, how do you propose we get a coach through the mountains?"

Thorne spread his arms. "The High Pass is wide enough for artillery trains to make good time through. A coach wouldn't have a problem."

"And von Diesricht?"

"We should have killed him long before Praag."

Silence descended on them again. The building ahead had was close enough to identify it as a farm now, though what the occupants farmed was a mystery to Varakash. There were no animals to be seen or heard, and no crops. He dismissed the thought after a second. He had seen stranger things, and this was close to the Wastes.

Varakash closed his eyes for a moment. Thorne was right, of course. Immortality, it seemed, was full of should-haves and regrets. If they had just killed the Witch Hunter when he had first found them, they could have passed for travelling nobles, with a change of clothing. The dangers of robbery from the dirt-poor villages scattered around the foothills of the World's Edge Mountains would be trifling compared to the threat of one of the Sigmarites' holy crusades.

Even five hundred years after the event, the Empire still remembered the wars of the Vampire Counts. In Kislev, the tales were far less widespread, but they were still known; by everyone who mattered, at least. The word 'vampire' still carried hate and fear with it, even this far north. Further south, and even the mention of it could rouse a mob.

If von Diesricht wanted to, he could rouse half the towns from here to Erengrad against them, even though he was a Templar of Sigmar rather than Ulric. Every faith held a grudge against the undead, it seemed. With that kind of pursuit, they would be hard-pressed to even get into the High Pass, never mind through it.

"There's no one here."

Varakash looked up at Thorne's voice. The farmhouse was barely fifty metres away, and sure enough, there wasn't a soul to be seen. The air carried nought but the crisp bite of autumn. The house itself was dilapidated, the wooden beams that crossed the walls broken and splintered irregularly. Scrub had begun to climb up the bottom of the walls, and the windows were empty holes set with the jagged remains of glass. The few plants around it were untended and overgrown.

"That would explain the lack of animals or crops," he said.

"Maybe whoever lives here is sheltering in the village. Even that would be safer than this place."

"Or maybe they were killed in the invasion."

"Maybe." Thorne shrugged. "Whatever happened to them, at least we won't have to sleep in the barn."

Varakash turned off the trail and through the broken gate that marked the entrance to the farmhouse. "Is that all you care about?" he asked.

"Of course," Thorne answered. "Now let's get inside before the sun rises."

Varakash sighed, and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the large farmhouse. The door opened onto a large hallway, and from what he could see of it, it looked the same as the exterior. Dust covered every raised surface, and all the furniture was in various states of disrepair, or outright destruction. A smashed vase lay on the floorboards beside the splintered remains of a table with its top snapped in two and the legs chewed and battered. Here and there, dead animals were scattered about; a bird crumpled against a door halfway up the hallway, a rat curled against the wall, thin and wasted.

"Whoever was here, they've been gone a long time," said Thorne. He stepped past Varakash, closing the door behind him. He bent and ran a finger over the collapsed table. "Look at this dust. This place hasn't been lived in for months."

Varakash nodded distractedly. He could smell something, coming from deep inside the farmhouse. Worse, he could _feel_ it, sliding through his mind like oil. "There's _something_ here," he said. "But, whatever it is, it isn't alive."

He walked down the hallway, and through the doorway, stepping over the dead bird. The door creaked. "Varakash?" he heard Thorne say, but he was too absorbed in whatever it was that the farmhouse was hiding to answer. He had learned to live with his innate necromantic curse, over the long years, but it still made him uneasy when something like this happened.

He could feel the dead beneath the ground all the time, like a faint itch at the back of his mind. Normally, he kept it pushed away, along with the thirst, but this time… The dead lay just as thickly here as anywhere else, but whatever was inside the house was far more than just a corpse. It was stronger, sharper, in a way he couldn't define, the same way redwood smoke was different from pine smoke.

Behind the doorway was what looked like the remains of a dining room. A large, hardwood table took pride of place in the centre of the room, riven with scratches. The walls were bare, but the shreds of furniture and shelves littered the floor at their base. It looked like a hurricane had struck, but had left that table alone, in the eye of the storm.

The table was stained with something. Dark spatters crisscrossed on the tabletop, and the left half of it was covered in the same substance. Paint, maybe? He glanced around as he passed the table, but he could see no paint pot.

Abruptly, he realised what the stains were. Not paint. Blood. Months old blood. Someone, maybe more than one someone, had died here. He looked again at the table, at the stains. Images came to him, of a man struggling atop the table, held down while blades hacked, stabbed, slashed at him. He could almost see the blood burbling out of him. He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth.

It had been a gruesome way to die, and he wouldn't let the thirst rise for it.

He heard Thorne picking his way through the dining room behind him, and carried on walking. The door at the end of the dining room opened onto another hallway, strewn with debris like the first. Opposite him was a doorway, set low at the base of half a dozen steps. It looked like the door to the basement.

Whatever it was that he could feel was behind that door. He pushed it open, wincing at the loud creaking it made. The hinges were so rusty that he thought they would snap before the door was open. It was pitch black, but his vampiric eyes saw perfectly as he descended into the basement.

The basement was a large room, dug into the earth and walled with thick wooden panels. Farm tools were scattered against the walls, haphazard, as if they had just been thrown there. The head of a rake, propped up to his left, was crusted with the same dark blood that coated the table upstairs. A sledgehammer lay on the floor, stained crimson.

But it was what lay in the centre of the floor that made his gorge rise.

A pentagram was etched in blood, eight feet across from point to point Around it were scrawled arcane symbols; a flaming eye, a sinuous slanting arrow, three bursting pustules, a sharp-edged rune. At the top of the pentagram was the eight pointed star of Chaos. Five candle stumps lay on their sides around it, one at each point. And in the middle lay three bodies. Two adults, rendered genderless by their mutilations, curled around the remains of a child.

"By the Gods," came a low whisper from behind him. "You can't even tell they were human."

Varakash turned to face Thorne, glad for any excuse to stop looking at what had been done to the bodies. "Chaos," he said. Just a single word, but Thorne reacted as if he had been slapped.

"Sacrifice, Varakash," he spat. "Not Chaos. In the name of Chaos, but not Chaos itself. I am as disgusted by this as you."

Varakash felt anger flare up inside him. He didn't know what had triggered it, but he took it and rode it, letting it sweep him away from thinking about what lay behind him. "They follow _your_ gods, Thorne. They do this in the name of the same gods you follow. Tell me this is not evil. Tell me."

"This is as close as you can get to evil, Varakash, and you and I both know it. They might do this in the name of my Gods, but that does not make me, _or_ my Gods the same as them."

"Really?" Varakash said. "Or do you just prefer not to see what you don't like?"

"And what would you know, Varakash? You follow _no_ gods, so what would you know of mine?"

"With scenes like this to see, what more is there to know?"

"There is evil everywhere; in every land, in every people, in every faith. Do not mistake that evil for what the true face of things."

"And what if it is the _only_ face?"

"You have known me for four millennia. Surely you see by now that Chaos is not evil. Chaos is a primal force, an underlying truth of reality. Chaos defies definition and classification. Chaos is Chaos. This," he swept an arm out towards the sacrifice. Varakash did not turn. "This is not Chaos. This is bloodthirsty savages who think they can appease the Gods with human sacrifice."

"And where are the Chaos worshippers who are not bloodthirsty savages? Except for you, there are none. None that I can see."

"Where is anyone who is not a savage, in this age?" Thorne countered. "We have seen blood sacrifice at Sigmarite temples, at altars of Ulric. Barbarity is not limited to Chaos, and honour is not limited to its enemies. Engra Deathsword was more noble a warrior than the Empire's precious Magnus the Pious. Morkar the Uniter was more honourable a man than Sigmar, the so-called man-God. You were there with me, Varakash. Can you deny it?

"No, but tell me this: why are the Gods of Chaos known as the Ruinous Powers? Or the Dark Gods?"

"And in the Wastes, Sigmar is known as the Destroyer of Hope, and Morr as the Reaper of Souls. Names, Varakash, nothing more."

"And is ritual sacrifice simply the same thing? A subjective label?"

"No," Thorne grated, "as I am trying to tell you, if you would listen. The people who did this do not know what Chaos is. They have only skewed folk tales and enemy propaganda. They have never been to the borders of the Realm of Chaos. They have never stood side-by-side with the great Gateway Stones and felt reality itself flowing through them."

"So everyone is evil except for you? I wish I shared your optimism."

"We are _all_ evil. Just as we are all good. You see the symbols of Chaos daubed in blood, and think 'evil'. I see the same, Varakash. The same as when I see the innocent consumed in Sigmarite fire. This is an evil time, and evil methods go hand in hand with it."

Varakash sighed. He closed his eyes. "You're right. I'm sorry, Thorne; something about this place just makes me… Well, it is done with now. Let's get out of this place."

A slight smile twitched the corners of Thorne's mouth. "It's forgiven, old friend. I feel it too. This room… no, let's go. Suddenly the barn doesn't seem such a bad idea."

Varakash followed Thorne out of the basement. He didn't look back. It was hard enough to not think about what lay down there, without making things worse by looking at it again.


	3. Chapter 3

Lord of Blood

Part 3

Varakash rose in time to see the last faint glow of daylight fade away. Shadows lengthened, merged, spreading like an oily stain outwards from the mountains. The few trees scattered along the trail went from vibrant ochre to a dull grey-brown as the darkness consumed them.

Varakash closed his eyes. A million sunsets, not one sunrise. He was forever at the end of things. Not any more. This time, the night would be the start.

"Still watching the sun set?"

Varakash turned. Thorne had emerged from where they had slept, in the small storage area dug into the earth beneath the barn. It reminded Varakash of the basement in the house, and what lay there, but he had put it out of his mind. He had seen worse. Far worse.

Thorne brushed dirt off his clothes. "You're far too philosophical, Varakash," he said. "We need to focus on what's happening now. Sunsets aren't going to get us any closer to the Pass."

"No," agreed Varakash, "but does beauty always have to serve a purpose? The kiss of light on the trees is something to treasure, especially for creatures like us."

"Beauty," dismissed Thorne with a wave. "I'd much rather have a solid axe and warm blood, for all you dislike them, than poetic language. Poetry and philosophy won't keep you alive."

Varakash sighed. They had argued over this more times than he could remember. After so long, it was hard not to be philosophical about things. A smile tugged at his mouth. Thorne seemed to have managed it, though. "There's more to life – even a life such as ours – than survival of the fittest," he said. "But we can argue as we walk. We've got a long way to go, still."

Thorne gave a look of mock surprise. "Pragmatism, Varakash? I didn't think you had it in you.. Funny, I could have sworn _I_ was the one who was supposed to be philosophical. You're the atheist, after all."

Varakash just shook his head, holding back a laugh. "Come on. We need to get somewhere worth sleeping in before daybreak. I for one don't want to sleep in the dirt unless it's unavoidable."

Thorne moved up next to him. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, frowning out of the dirty window.

"What?" said Varakash.

"That light," said Thorne. "Where is it coming from?"

Varakash followed Thorne's gaze. A flickering orange glow haloed the trail back towards the village, casting long shadows behind the trees. "I don't know," he said. "It looks almost like…" The realisation hit him. _Torchlight!_ "Von Diesricht!" he spat.

"He's followed us?" growled Thorne. "_Now_ can you bring yourself to kill him?"

"Now is not the time, Thorne," Varakash warned. "Now help me get the doors and windows blocked up. With any luck, they'll just check the house, and miss us completely."

"And when they see the bodies in the basement?" asked Thorne, but he moved to help; grabbing planks that had fallen loose onto the floor and hefting them over the window panes.

Varakash set about propping the door closed with the remains of a stable block. "When they see the bodies…" he said. "That's something that we'll have to deal with as it happens. Unless you can predict what von Diesricht and a mob of villagers will do?"

"Fire is what they'll do," answered Thorne. He tapped the wall. "Wooden barn, Varakash. Burns very well. And so do we."

"Or they could assume we've moved on," Varakash countered. "Either way, there's not a lot we can do about it now. If we ran, we'd be in plain sight of them."

"You know as well as I do that there are ways to stop them, Varakash. We're more than just stronger and faster than humans, however much you like to pretend we aren't."

Varakash shook his head. "I won't. It is abominable." By now, von Diesricht and his mob were almost to the house.

"The dead, Varakash. There are enough corpses in this place to bury an army. A thousand armies."

"No!" He couldn't. The dead had earned their peace. It wasn't right to force them to be puppets. The cold, rational part of him pulled at him, trying to convince him that the bodies were just that – bodies, with no shred of their former lives about them. He shook it off. _No, it is not _right.

Eager shouts echoed outside. Thorne grimaced, throwing his cloak back to leave his axe free. "One day, you'll accept what you are, Varakash. You don't have to like it any more than I do – and believe me, if I could be anything else, I would – but we are what we are."

Varakash closed his eyes. _We are what we- no! I did not choose this. I will not become a monster. I will not!_

"They're here," said Thorne.

It seemed von Diesricht's mob had finished searching the house. Lights clustered around the barn, visible through slight gaps in the panels of the walls and through their hasty barricading on the windows. Varakash could hear voices shouting, then another, harsher voice cutting through them.

They were going to break into the barn, and when they did, he and Thorne would be caught between wooden walls and fire. If it came to it, they might be able to fight their way out through a dozen or so, but in this small a space, and with so many against them, the mob couldn't fail to bring them down.

Varakash gritted his teeth. He had not come this far to fail now because of some human Witch Hunter and a mob of villagers. He would reach her – he _would_ – whatever it took. Whatever it took. Even if they had to raise each and every corpse for a mile around. With the realisation came a strange sense of relaxation. It was not a matter of if they _could_ escape, it was _how_ they would be forced to do so.

And even as he thought it, he felt something wilt inside him. He was becoming more of a monster and less of a man each night. How long before he became a ravening beast? How long before he would cease to be Varakash and be consumed by the vampire?

"Get ready," he said, as the door bent under a slamming impact. The mob was charging it; or they had a ram of some kind.

"We can't stay in here," said Thorne. "We'd be trapped. There's not enough room."

Varakash drew his sword. With his free hand, he swept a cluster of boards from the window closest to him. "Out the window, as soon as the door gives," he said. "We'll be around to their side, then."

Thorne nodded, and the door gave a tortured creak as the ramming escalated.

Then it burst open, and men spilled inside, brandishing flaming torches and improvised weapons; fishing spears and farming tools mixed with the occasional antique sword or dusty musket.

"Go!" snapped Varakash, and dove for the window. The glass shattered as he hit it, arm raised to shield his face, and he felt a thousand blades slicing into him. Then he hit the ground amongst a rain of sharp sound and flashing daggers and broke into a roll. He came up from the roll ready to fight, sword raised, in a balanced stance.

The mob was pouring into the barn, stumbling over one another in their bloodlust. Flames had already caught inside, and now cries of warning were mingled in with the anger. At the back, a lone figure stood, not moving. One arm was hidden inside his long, leather coat, and the other grasped the hilt of a sword so hard that his knuckles were white. A wide-brimmed hat was pulled down low, bathing his eyes in darkness.

"Von Diesricht," growled Thorne.

Varakash grabbed his arm. "There's no time. It's enough of a miracle that they haven't spotted us yet, now let's make the most of it and get away."

But even as he spoke, the Witch Hunter's gaze shifted across, and he caught sight of them. Varakash saw him stiffen, and then he was thrusting his sword towards them and shouting at the mob.

Varakash's grip tightened on his sword, and he had to force himself to relax. Loose. Loose and fast. Tightness made you slow, made your movements show long before you began them. A fight was unavoidable now. Over short distances, he and Thorne could easily outpace the humans, but vampiric flesh tired the same as mortal, and they couldn't run forever.

Thorne grinned harshly. "Looks like we're killing our way out anyway," he said.

Varakash's eyes had fixed on something behind the mob, next to the Witch Hunter. A half-dozen horses whickered at the flames, their reins held tight by a burly man who had procured a large, flat-bladed axe from somewhere. A woodcutter, most likely. "Get to the horses," he said to Thorne. "We take one each and lame the others. Von Diesricht won't be able to follow fast enough, and by the time we get into the mountains, we'll be far enough away that we won't need the horses."

Then the mob was upon them.

A fishing spear stabbed for him, and he darted left, faster than any human could manage. His sword flashed out without thought, and he felt it slide through skin and muscle. He kept moving, dodging a clumsy slash from a dagger-wielding youth and retaliating by bringing his sword round and into the youth, just above the vee of his throat. The blade punched through the youth's body like it was brittle wood, powered by four millennia of vampiric strength, and the dead human bent backwards as he dropped to his knees.

Varakash kicked the body in the chin and yanked his sword free as it flopped backwards. Beside him, Thorne's axe flashed out with the speed of a rapier, the blade like a flash of lighting as it hewed into the mob. The humans fought with no finesse, no skill; their only strength was in numbers. Which, unfortunately, they had in abundance.

Varakash slipped past another fishing spear, and was forced to duck immediately to avoid a blow from an old, chipped axe. His duck turned into a roll as a pair of knives flashed down at him, and he came up with his sword whipping behind him. He felt it bite, and pulled it free with a grunt.

He rose, sliding sideways around a sword-strike and punching out at its wielder. His fist crashed into something brittle – a nose? – with a wet crunch, but he hissed as a dagger scored a burning gash across his arm. It wasn't pain, not as mortals would know it, but it wasn't pleasant. Whatever had made him a vampire had put some distance between his mind and his body.

He withdrew his arm, and broke forward as a gap opened in the press. His sword snaked left and right, forcing the humans to draw back, but even past his frantic dodges he felt more blows landing. More lines of fire being traced across his skin.

And then he was past the melee and cannoning towards the horses. And von Diesricht in front of them. The Witch Hunter stepped forward, his sword raised in his one good arm. He sneered as Varakash slowed.

"You can't escape me, monster," von Diesricht said, his voice harsh and edged with dark pleasure. He shifted his injured arm. "It's time for you to pay for this. This, and that abhorrent desecration in the basement of the house."

Varakash growled, and charged.

For a human, von Diesricht was fast. He met Varakash's first blow with a smooth parry, and turned the second with a solid block. "Just die, vampire," he snarled. "Go back to the hell that spawned you."

Varakash smashed aside the Witch Hunter's riposte and swept forward until his face was inches from von Diesricht's. "I did not choose this existence," he hissed. The With Hunter's blade came up, and Varakash dodged backwards out of reach. "I was once a man like you, von Diesricht. I could have killed you so many times now. But I didn't. Just as I didn't kill those people in the basement. I come from no hell. We are more alike than you think, human."

"I am _nothing_ like you," roared the Witch Hunter. He charged at Varakash, growling as the vampire slipped away from his blow. "I am a Templar of Holy Sigmar, and you are an abomination that feeds on the innocent!"

Varakash flowed backwards, readying his sword again. The Witch Hunter's words were too close to home for comfort. "No, von Diesricht," he said. "I may be a monster, but it is you who are the abomination. How many innocents have you burned? How many have you killed with that sword?"

"I am an instrument of Sigmar's divine will!" cried von Diesricht, hurling himself at Varakash once more.

Varakash parried the Witch Hunter's hasty strikes, and smiled sadly. "No. What you are, is in my way." He lashed out with his free hand, fingers closing upon von Diesricht's sword-arm in an iron grip, holding it fast. The Witch Hunter screamed as Varakash's sword plunged into his stomach, just below his ribs.

Varakash let the limp man drop, and sprinted for the horses. The axe-wielding man holding their reins readied himself, hefting his weapon and letting the reins drop.

He didn't even feel Varakash's sword punching through his eye socket and into his skull.

Varakash pulled his sword from the dead man's head and swept it out at the horses. Four fell, whinnying, hamstrings cut, and he vaulted up onto one of the remaining two, a sleek bay. He dug in his heels, and grabbed the reins of the black beside it. The horses leapt forward, headed towards the brawl beside the now-blazing barn.

Varakash barrelled into the mob, slashing where he could, letting the horse's impetus carry him through towards where he could see Thorne's axe flashing still.

Thorne moved like only a vampire could – reacting faster than thought and moving with superhuman speed; darting past swords and spears, daggers and axes, his own axe slicing out and coming up each time spattered with blood. He saw Varakash, and grinned wildly.

Just as a sword stabbed into his back and exploded from his ribcage in a spray of blood. Thorne groaned, sagged, then whirled up and around, dragging the sword from the hands of the giant who held it. His axe arced, and the huge man's head caved in around the blade.

And then Varakash was beside him, reaching down to grab his arm and pull him up into the saddle of the black horse. "Go!" shouted Varakash, and heeled the bay. The two burst from the mob amidst a storm of shouts and screams, and kept going, down the trail towards the mountains.

By the time the shouts had faded and the flames had shrunk down in the distance, Thorne was sagging in his saddle.

Varakash looked over at him. "Come on," he said. "We're almost away."

Thorne coughed a laugh. "Shut up, Varakash." He gestured at the sword that was still embedded through the right side of his chest. "It's this damned thing. I can feel the wound trying to close around it."

Varakash guided the bay closer to Thorne. "Hold on to something," he said.

"Why," coughed Thorne, a slight smile on his lips. "Are we going mountaineering?"

"So I can pull this damned sword out of your back," replied Varakash dryly. Thorne braced himself on the pommel of his saddle, and Varakash took hold of the sword hilt. The uneven motion of the horses made just keeping hold difficult, but he did his best to keep the sword steady.

"Ready?" he said, and immediately pulled the sword out as fast as he could. The blade slid from Thorne with a wet sucking sound, and a trickle of blood snaked down Thorne's back. The blade was smeared with dark blood.

Thorne stifled a groan, and straightened in his saddle. "Damned peasants," he muttered. In a louder voice, he asked, "How long before von Diesricht gets them after us?"

Varakash threw the sword aside. "He won't."

"Oh? Why not?"

"I killed him," Varakash said quietly.

Thorne sighed. "I don't understand why you can feel regret about it. He was trying to _kill_ us. He couldn't be reasoned with; it was him or you. You did what you had to." He smiled. "And knowing you, it was a clean, merciful death. Unlike what I would have done."

Varakash closed his eyes for a long moment. "I stabbed him in the stomach and left him to die on the floor," he said.

Thorne paused. "Like I said, you did what you had to do," he said eventually. "Von Diesricht had to die. And at least now we don't have to worry as much about that mob. They won't follow us once we get into the High Pass."

Varakash sighed. "I know. You're right, and I know you're right. But that doesn't stop me regretting killing those people. The villagers were innocent. Von Diesricht had them caught up in zeal."

"And von Diesricht himself? Was _he_ innocent?"

"No. But… I feel like I knew him. He was a person, however much I disliked him, or however much of a thorn he was in our sides."

Thorne chuckled. "You'll never make a good vampire, Varakash. Getting attached to your hunters is a sure way of getting killed."

"Maybe I don't want to be a good vampire. Maybe I don't want to lose who I am. It's all I have left to me. My old life, even my nation, everything I knew is gone. All I have left is myself, and I don't want to lose that to the vampire side of me."

Thorne looked at him. "Your problem, Varakash, is that you aren't a killer. You don't have whatever it is that lets people kill each other and live with it." He snorted. "You're too _human_."

Varakash didn't answer, and they rode on in silence. He had too much to think about.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

Prince Dhiram straightened as his advisors entered his throne room, their heels clicking on the polished stone floor. The room was extravagant; far too extravagant for his tastes; but certain things were expected of a Prince, and he wasn't in a position to break with them yet. Faded tapestries depicting age-old victories rippled on the walls as the doors slid closed, chandeliers bathed the large chamber in soft, shifting light, reflecting from shining ornate decorations.

The three men were as varied as could be. Soral, the merchants' representative, was tall and stick-thin, looking as much like a predatory spider surveying his web than as the calculating, hyper-logical man that he was. He wrung his long, bony hands together, but his face was set in a resolute mask.

Beside him, Falshian was an amoebic blob of a man, his corpulent form braced on a straining, black-lacquered cane. Enough gold to buy a small village was hung around him; necklaces, chains, medallions, rings, enough to make Dhiram wonder how he could even raise his head. Falshian liked to call himself the 'people's representative', but it was common knowledge to everyone but himself that the man was loathed everywhere. If it wasn't for the impassable, and infuriating, support of the half-dozen noble houses for his 'traditional and well-established values', Dhiram would have spitted the man long ago.

_Traditional and wells established values indeed_, thought Dhiram, as Falshian mopped at his brow with a silk handkerchief. _The same tradition that had Sergetti wallowing in its own demise; the same well established values that had let the Weeping Fever decimate most of the towns and villages outside of the capital_. Dhiram had no care for tradition. Times changed, and nations had to change with them.

But it was the third man who seemed to dominate the room, simply by his presence. Unlike the other two, he was armed; a sword of outlandish design at his waist, half-hidden by his deep crimson cloak. And his eyes; his eyes were red, a red so dark it was almost black, shot through with flecks and traceries of brighter scarlet. It was those eyes that gave him that overwhelming presence in the room, despite his reserved clothing and well built-but-average physique. Those eyes, set into that alabaster-skinned face.

He stepped forwards slightly, sweeping a bow with his cloak in front of him. "My Prince, messengers report that Lord Hahn has been defeated at Fort Aspen. Your armies have pushed him back to the river."

Soral gave him a withering glare as he stepped back. "And at what cost this victory, _general_ Marius? How many men wasted? You, of all of us, should know how much it costs to train and equip even one regiment of spearmen, and yet you insist on engaging in outright battle."

Marius nodded solemnly at Soral, his calmness only aggravating the merchant further. "Nine hundred dead at Fort Aspen, another three hundred in the pursuit. Hahn's rearguard was fierce, and sold their lives dearly."

"Dearly indeed," said Soral. "Five hundred men dead in one day. Five hundred men who will _have_ to be replaced." The disagreement was clear in his voice. "Every soldier costs the coffers fifty schillings to train and send out, including equipment. Every officer we need to command them costs another fifty on top of that. There is a good reason that battles are rare amongst the Border Princes. For the losses you've burdened us with, we could have hired a mercenary company to get exactly the same result, and we wouldn't have to pay for their losses."

Marius made no visible reaction to Soral's scathing words. "And when the mercenaries are bribed?" he said. "Or we garner a reputation for wasting their lives and they will no longer take our coin? Or if we need garrisoning forces?"

Soral bristled. "And what happens when your war bleeds the coffers dry and we starve?"

Falshian raised a hand. "General Marius, Merchant Soral, please. This disagreement is most disheartening for the future of Sergetti. Most disheartening. Can we not come to a consensus? This war is undoubtedly necessary, for if we did not act, we would be pressed into poverty by our neighbours; and yet we cannot allow ourselves to overextend beyond our economy. Is this not what we must agree on?"

Soral gave him a withering look. "It is simply the extent to which we can go before it is 'overextending' that we disagree on, Falshian. Unfortunately, the general seems woefully ignorant of the economic repercussions of his war, and I find myself in an uphill struggle trying to inform him of such before he ruins all that we have gained."

"The realities of war are harsh, Merchant-Representative," said Marius. "There is a saying; 'war is not won on the battlefield, but in the counting-houses'. How much is this war worth to Sergetti, Soral? Victory is not cheap, but the alternative is defeat, and that will cost more than any victory."

"But the fact remains that we cannot pursue this war further without taking crippling risks with our treasury!"

Marius flashed those eyes at Soral, a hard, dangerous look. "Then perhaps those risks must be taken," he said, voice like ice, "Or would you prefer to remain secure in your dealings while Sergetti is consumed?"

"And what would you know of Sergetti?" sneered Soral. "You've only been here a year, slaughtering your way in from the night to that generalship you parade around with all your arrogance."

"I know more than you, it would seem," said Marius, fire flashing in his eyes. "Or have you become a philanthropist all of a sudden? I wonder, have you ever seen the common people, _Merchant-Representative_? Have you ever spoken with them, visited the villages, been a part of Sergetti itself, rather than just this cosseted court?"

Dhiram raised a hand, and they stopped, composing themselves.

"Much as I am fascinated by your… discussions on this subject, I find myself wondering after other matters, before this audience is taken over fully by talk of war and losses." He lowered his hand. "Falshian. What has been the cost of the Fever this last week?"

Falshian mopped his brow again with his handkerchief. "The Weeping Fever appears to be winding down, Prince; that is, burning itself out, if you will. Deaths amongst the peasantry are down to an acceptable level; around eight in every hundred; and amongst the nobility and the higher classes the Fever is all but eliminated."

"Eight in every hundred." Dhiram said flatly.

"Ah, yes, Prince."

Dhiram paused, as if for thought. "And can you also tell me how many inhabit Sergetti's villages, Citizen-Representative?"

"I can only guess, Prince."

"Guess, then."

The handkerchief came up to his brow again. "Over a hundred thousand?"

"Perhaps a high estimate," said Dhiram, "but a census would have to be called to verify it, and wartime is hardly the ideal occasion for that. But say it is a hundred thousand. How many deaths would that be from the Weeping Fever?"

"Ah, eight thousand, Prince."

"And that is… what were your words… 'an acceptable level'?" He leaned forwards, eyes flashing. "Are you telling me that losing _eight thousand_ people to fever is _acceptable_, Citizen-Representative?"

Falshian shifted, crumpling and uncrumpling the handkerchief in his hands. "Ah, uh, that is, they're only…" He took a breath. "No, Prince."

'_Only peasants' was what he was about to say_, thought Dhiram with disgust. _That fat worm would leave his own mother to die if he could profit by it_. "No. Your proposed course of action to remedy this situation?"

"Court donations to the Temple of Morr and Shallya will be increased, Prince." His voice almost stuck on the next words. "As will taxation of the higher classes to pay for the healing which the peasantry cannot afford. I will personally petition the priests of Morr to increase their protection and collection undertakings."

"Good," nodded Dhiram. He turned to Soral. "Now, Merchant-Advisor, what is the latest report of the state of the treasury?"

The merchant's lips thinned. "Not good, Prince. Compared to just one year ago, we have less than a third of what we had then. Given what we've seen so far, we cannot keep up this war past one more month, at the latest. Barring, of course, extraordinary events like the sacking of a city or somesuch." He spared Marius a small, superior twitch of his mouth. "And I hardly think _that_ is likely to happen in a month."

Dhiram waved Soral down. By the gods, he was growing weary of this constant bickering. "And trade?" he asked.

Soral's hands were wringing themselves again. "Again, not good. Tuolen's borders remain closed to us, thanks to their close alliance with Chalon, which means were are still denied access to most of the north-eastern trading routes. Harteth have levied another tenth onto taxes on our goods, so we must pay more to sell at whatever price we can get."

"Is there nothing we can do about this situation?"

Soral spread his arms. "No, Prince, for then the other realms would simply deny us trade. They know we need it more than them, and that gives them a powerful advantage. We buy for more than everyone else must, and sell for less, simply because we can't afford not to."

Dhiram sighed. "Very well," he said. "What is the situation with Relyn?"

"They continue to force their prohibitive prices on sulphur. They're the only ones we can get it from safely, and they are well aware of the fact."

"And what do you suggest we do about the problem?"

His spindly arms were back in front of him, fingers entwining. "Crossbows. We simply cannot afford the upkeep of blackpowder weapons, and we need the sulphur for other things. We can easily manufacture crossbows, and quarrels for them."

Dhiram sighed heavily. "I will take the matter into consideration. For now, though, I think this audience is over." He gestured. "General Marius, I would speak with you about the war."

Marius nodded, and stepped forwards as Soral and Falshian left. He waited until the doors slid shut before speaking.

"Soral and Falshian are still safely ignorant, Prince."

Dhiram nodded. "I know, but Soral's incessant naysaying is beginning to raise questions. Especially since his 'advice' is sound, and I should be following it. Sooner or later, someone is going to suspect that my motives are not what I have announced."

Marius gave a slight nod. "Some already think this more than a minor conflict with Chalon. There are mutters in the streets that you won't settle until you've destroyed Tuolen and taken Relyn's mines as well. Fortunately, none of them dare raise the issue publicly. For now."

"And if they did, everything would come crashing down. Accusations of that would set people thinking further. I want more than just Chalon and Tuolen and Relyn. I want the entire Border reaches. And it will never happen if the merchants find out. This is the crux of things, Marius. A whole year working towards this goal, and it could all be for nothing if one person says the wrong words."

"And by the same token, another month of silence, and it won't matter."

"I know," sighed Dhiram. He raised a hand and massaged between his eyes. _Plots within plots_. "How long will Hahn's Chalonii hold at the river?" he said, finally. If Lord Hahn was removed from the equation, then the one thing uniting the disparate bands of mercenaries that Chalon used would be gone. If they were forced into a large engagement, bickering would do most of his work for him. Mercenaries were not noted for their camaraderie.

Marius gave a slight shrug. "With the forces he has left – Adolphus Grieger's entire band, and maybe a thousand between Aulen Spikethorn, Bredick the Mace, and Velor Stormweaver – he can hold for a week or more against anything but a full assault. If he uses them well; which he will."

Dhiram nodded. "The man's a military genius. The Border Princes would be mine by now, if it wasn't for Chisan Hahn. How many did we outnumber him by at Fort Aspen? Three to one? Four?"

"We had eight thousand to his three thousand. Edrian did well to shift him and only lose a thousand; but then, sieges have always been Edrian's favoured battleground. With the terrain as it is around the Trebeclez, Hahn's leftovers will have a golden opportunity to cut the heart out of Edrian's army. Still, he can't hope to win, whatever the losses he deals to us. He'll be dealt with within the week," said Marius. "Unless you have any special need for me here, I'll go north to lead the army against him myself. We need Edrian's army as intact as possible, and I don't trust him with it."

"Very well," said Dhiram, satisfied. Hahn might be a military genius, but Marius was his equal at the least, as well as the single best fighter Dhiram had ever seen. There had never been doubt of his martial prowess, even by Soral or Falshian, who would use anything they could get their hands on to discredit the general in front of Dhiram. Marius had ensured that the night of his arrival.

Dhiram shivered at the memory, and shifted in his throne to cover it. "You can go now, general," he said.

Marius gave a small bow, and turned. His footsteps clicked sharply as he walked from the throne room, leaving Dhiram in solitude.

Right then, with so much hanging in the balance, Dhiram almost wished he had not started down this road; that he had simply stayed as a minor noble and lived a life of relative comfort while Sergetti decayed around him. Stress was his constant companion of late. Stress, exhaustion and scheming. He was tired of them all.

His thoughts turned to Marius. So much was riding on that one man, and even Dhiram knew nothing of his history. He had simply appeared in the night and offered his sword to Dhiram. He never spoke of his past or his aims, and he showed so little emotion that he might as well be a statue.

Dhiram had had him watched constantly for the first six months of the campaign, but Marius had proved his loyalty through battle; leading a crushing victory in the first major battle amongst the Border Princes for years. That victory had given him the crossing of the Tana Dante along the Khyprian road, and with it had removed another barrier to long-distance trade with Tilea. After that victory, Marius had become the general of his growing army.

And yet, even after months closeted in secret conference with him, he was still a stranger to Dhiram.

He sighed. There was nothing he could do now. He could just wait, and hope that everything happened somewhere close to what he had planned.

* * *

Back in his lavish manse from the audience with that upstart Prince Dhiram, Falshian gestured for the servant boy to stop speaking. Servants were such good spies – they seemed to be invisible to everyone as they scurried around their duties – and it had been a simple matter to coerce the boy into listening in on the Prince's meeting with Marius.

As the boy left, hunched over and flicking glances back over his shoulder, Falshian rang the small bell that sat on the desk beside him. The study was a sparse, though large, room, with only a pair of stuffed book cases and the desk breaking up the unrelieved white of the walls, and the sound echoed sharply.

After a few seconds, a man pushed the door open and entered. He was tall and gangly, looking nothing like the proficient killer and schemer that he had proven himself to be. A grey coat covered him from neck to foot, and his short brown hair was combed back from the soft lines of his face.

"Lord Falshian?" said the man in a smooth voice, giving a slight bow.

"Bertrando," replied Falshian cordially. "Come. I have the most interesting things to tell."

Bertrando gave an easy smile that seemed to come from nowhere, breaking up the flat, emotionless expression he had worn. It was unnerving that the man could be so… fluid in his expressions. And there was no way to tell if any of them were genuine. He stepped closer to Falshian, sliding the door closed behind him. "Oh?" he said. "Another noble with no heirs that needs killing?"

Falshian scowled. "No. This is far more important."

"Really?" said Bertrando, the smile widening slightly. "What could the good and honourable Falshian Demartes want more than money?"

"Power," Falshian snapped. "Now be silent. The Prince's little war is more than we suspected. He doesn't just want to fend off our neighbours; he wants it all. This is a war of conquest."

"And you want me to kill him for you? I warn you, I charge very steep prices for royalty."

"No," said Falshian. "I said be silent. If we end the war, Sergetti will still be the same old insignificant Princedom with the same old squabbling nobles. If the Prince is _victorious_, though, Sergetti will become the centre of a true realm. And I will be right there with it to capitalise on the development. And when I do… when the good _King_ Dhiram dies mysteriously, then who better to take the reins of power?"

Bertrando's smile faded away to seriousness. "And I take the blame for treason," he said flatly. "You don't pay me enough for me to die for you, Falshian."

"No. Remember, I said Dhiram will die _mysteriously_. You will have whatever you desire – wealth, women, lands; anything."

And suddenly Bertrando's smile was back again. "Good. I will hold you to that, Falshian. Now, what would you have me do? You would not have called be here if you did not have a task for me."

"Marius goes to meet Hahn's Chalonii at the banks of the Trebeclez. Go there ahead of him, and remove Hahn from the equation."

"So he can't damage the Prince's army further than he already has," nodded Bertrando. "Very well. Hahn is as good as dead already." He turned to leave, but Falshian stopped him.

"Bertrando," he said, locking eyes with the killer. "If anyone sees you, it must be the last thing they ever see."


	5. Chapter 5

Lord of Blood

Part 5

The sun was high in the sky, casting its harsh glare across the assembled armies as they stood, steel shining like a thousand lamps. Even on the rough rise in front of his army, Edrian could almost feel the rank odour of sweat like a physical assault, the scent oozing all around him. Seven thousand men were behind him, and a thousand horses, creating a background clamour of white noise, odd phrases rising to the surface before being drowned again in the cacophony.

Beside him, Marius looked as if he was relaxing on a cool night rather than standing at the head of one of the largest armies ever assembled in the Border Princes. His armour had to be like a furnace – Edrian had eschewed his own for a light shirt; the thick of the fighting was a soldier's place, not a leader's – but the man betrayed no hint of discomfort. No hint of any emotion, for that mater, his crimson eyes studying the Chalonii arrayed opposite with cool impassivity. His sword, with its outlandish half-curved blade, like a cross between a scythe and a wide scimitar that started half a foot up from the hilt, was belted at his waist in its wide scabbard, and Marius' fingers played idly over the unadorned hilt.

The General had arrived in the dead of night, somehow slipping into the camp like a ghost and arriving at Edrian's tent undetected. Edrian had ordered the southern guards that night lashed, a fact which seemed to at once amuse and sadden Marius. After his unsettling arrival, the camp had been roused, and preparations made for dealing with the Chalonii, Marius' charisma infecting the men after the wait of nearly a week around Hahn's mercenaries.

Edrian looked once more at the Chalonii. He could make out Hahn at the head, standing with his mercenary captains. The only figures he could identify over the distance were Bredick the Mace; his bear-like stature mounted atop a massive horse, dwarfing the others; and Velor Stormweaver. The Druid's robes hung loosely, but her form was too slender to be anyone else's, even from this far away.

"Will they accept?" he said to Marius, keeping his eyes on the mercenaries.

"They're mercenaries. Mercenaries never fight to the death if it can be avoided." Marius' voice was low, sure of itself, with amusement trailing through. "Unless Hahn has somehow convinced them they can win today, of course."

"How could he? We have them outnumbered four to one, and they're trapped against the Trebeclez. Unless we let them go, they have nowhere to run, and they can't hope to fight their way out."

"Then maybe Hahn will be bringing terms of surrender to us," said Marius.

"If Hahn does not, then the mercenaries themselves should. They have enough sense – well, except for the Mace, but he can see a path if he's led to it."

A banner was hoisted up behind Hahn and the mercenary captains, a rearing purple stag on a purple-bordered white field. Hahn's personal symbol. A belated moment later, three others went up; Grieger's crossed black quarrels, Spikethorn's curving crimson fang, the Mace's steel-grey mace-head dripping with one drop of bright blood. Velor Stormweaver had no banner. Her kind was never fully accepted, and never when accompanied by armsmen. Mages were dangerous.

"Looks like this is it," Edrian said, as Hahn and the mercenaries started forwards at a trot. Marius nodded, and he and Edrian swung up into their saddles. As they rode down to the Chalonii, the Sergettian army stirred at their backs, a ripple going through the blanket of noise.

A small, rueful smile crept onto Edrian's mouth. Something was actually happening, after more than a week of waiting after the slaughter at Fort Aspen. None of the men would be eager for a battle, but by the sounds of it, all of them would prefer _something_ to be happening over nothing. Himself, he wanted nothing more than to not have to send any more people out to die.

"Remember," said Marius quietly, "keep everything in the open. No hidden movements. We need to convince Hahn to surrender, not fill his head with thoughts of assassination."

"I know," Edrian said, annoyance creeping into his voice. He did know – it had been he who brought it up in the first place. He had little enough experience in war or politics, but it was enough to know that credit was something that belonged to those who claimed it, or just assumed they had it, rather than those who deserved it. Honesty, it seemed, was a stranger in high society.

They drew rein perhaps three metres from the Chalonii leaders, directly between the two armies. It was the first time Edrian had actually seen Chisan Hahn. Up close, the man seemed too small for the accolades heaped upon him, his lustrous green coat draped over a body that seemed too… average. His fiery hair hung down loose in the Chalonii fashion, draped over his left shoulder in a red-gold wave, framing his soft face. A soft face, before he noticed the eyes. Hahn's dark eyes were harder than steel, set in a seemingly-perpetual frown.

If not for those eyes, he would have been lost beneath the mercenaries behind him. Aulen Spikethorn was almost as tall as the Mace, his whipcord-lean form bare to the waist, a long-bladed spear held almost-casually in his stirrup like a lance. Almost casually – the whiteness of his knuckles and the almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth gave away his discomfort. Beside him, Bredick the Mace towered, his sharp-angled features reminiscent of his namesake. Thick furs were draped over his shoulders, and iron-studded leather armoured him, even in this heat. The look of anger and frustration on his face was almost deadly. A huge mace with a two-handed grip hung from a loop across his back, the spiked head glinting sharply.

Adolphus Grieger was more normally proportioned, but displayed no less stubbornness than the Mace; a dark leather coat hung to his feet, and a wide-brimmed hat sat low over his brow, casting his face in shadow. A pistol was holstered on his right hip, and a short sword on his left. He flicked his reins angrily when he saw Edrian looking at him. Arrogance was a job requirement for a mercenary, and Grieger had enough for ten.

Standing behind them was Velor Stormweaver. Her willowy form seemed like it could be swept away in a breeze, her grey-green robes shifting slightly in the wind. Her hood was thrown back, revealing a startlingly youthful face surrounded by vibrant brown hair. Her eyes were grey, shot through with pale blue. She didn't seem to notice Edrian, all her attention focused unblinkingly on Marius.

Marius gave a short bow from the saddle. "It is good to finally meet," he said.

Hahn returned the bow, stiffly, as did Grieger and Spikethorn. Stormweaver inclined her head distractedly, while the Mace grunted, anger clear in the sound. "I wish I could say the same," Hahn said sourly. "It would appear that you have us at a disadvantage this time around."

_Straight to business_, thought Edrian. _Maybe he's one of the few straight-talking leaders_.

Marius gave a small smile. "So it would seem. However, I sincerely doubt that you would be willing to go down quietly."

"Damn right," growled Bredick. "We aren't lambs for the slaughter."

"No," said Marius, his tone suddenly serious. "What you are is mercenaries for hire."

"And what do you mean by that?" asked Aulen Spikethorn.

"What I mean is that I will offer you a… substantial amount of money for you to abandon this last stand – and it _is_ a last stand; you have no hope of victory, no matter how many tricks you have ready – and join my army."

"We aren't traitors," said the Mace sharply.

"He's right," added Spikethorn. "Once we're hired for a fight, we stay until the fight's done. We don't betray and backstab."

Hahn's mouth twisted into a satisfied smile. "They aren't your Sergettian peasants, Marius, ready to serve whoever seems best at the time. They aren't cowardly foreign mercenaries, ready to run at the first sign of danger, or change their allegiance mid-way through a battle. No, they are my army. _My_ army, Marius."

"And," said Marius, "the offer extends to you, also, General Hahn."

"I am no traitor."

"Think of it this way: you refuse, and you die. Dead, you serve no Prince, Chalonii or otherwise. Or you accept, and you get out of this alive, with the price being only that you swear allegiance to my army. Whatever you choose, you will serve Chalon no longer. It is simply a choice between dying or living."

'_My army'?_ Edrian thought. _Not Prince Dhiram's army? What game is Marius playing?_

"Is it?" said Hahn. "I see a choice between honourable death and cowardly surrender. I have no wish to die here, Marius, but I will not be named coward."

"If we switch sides here," put in Grieger, "we will never be employed again. We will be forever known as those who cut and run at the smell of trouble."

"And if we die here?" said Spikethorn. "Dead men spend no coin, Grieger. You yourself said that, not an hour ago. We have nowhere to run, and no chance of fighting our way out of here. Marius – much as I hate to admit it – has given us a way out."

"We are _not_ doomed here, Spikethorn," growled Grieger.

"Really?" Spikethorn gestured with his wide-bladed spear. "Can you not see, Grieger? We have nothing to our advantage here. Battles _have_ been won from worse positions than ours, but do you really think yourself equal to those feats?"

"_Enough_," snapped Hahn. "If I have to lose every man in my command, then so be it, but I – will – not – surrender!"

* * *

Crouched at the edge of a steep, rocky rise to the west of the armies, Bertrando calmly adjusted the telescope sight mounted atop his bulky crossbow. The sight had been taken from a dwarf engineer, years back, before Dhiram ever rose to the throne. It had caused no little consternation amongst the dwarves of Karak Hirn; and still did to this day; but Falshian had deemed it a worthy price to pay.

The two armies were arrayed in front of him, stretching away from him like dark stains on the grass. Between them, directly in front of him, he could make out the leaders of each army. Arguing, it looked like.

_There_. The sight snapped into place on top of the stock, and he raised it to his shoulder, testing. With his eye pressed to the sight, the leaders leapt into sight; Marius and Edrian on one side, Hahn and the mercenaries on the other. All mounted. All easy targets. The sight had a small, faint crosshair marked lightly onto it, and he sighted it on Hahn's head.

Now? Or was it too soon? He was no expert at judging battles. Would it be better to kill Hahn before the battle started, or during the chaos? He lowered the crossbow, turned to sight on a knot in the bole of a tree perhaps thirty feet away. He pulled the trigger, and the quarrel whipped out with a low _thwap_.

Dead centre. The crosshair was sighted perfectly. This close, at least; there was no telling what it was like at range. Sighing, he pulled a second quarrel from the quiver at his waist and began reloading the crossbow. It was fine for Falshian to say he wanted Hahn dead, but it wasn't Falshian who had to do it. He had ridden his horse nearly to death to get here as fast as he had, and yet he had still found Marius ahead of him, somehow. All he could do now was eliminate Hahn and hope that he could be gone before they found out who it was that fired the killing quarrel.

The quarrel snapped into place with a low _click_, and he worked the crank mounted on the side of the stock to pull back the cord. The crank was a new innovation, exported from the Empire at no small cost. Falshian liked to pretend he was already at the heart of international society, and that meant having the best of anything, no matter how far away, or how expensive. It was one of the reasons Bertrando was still with him. That, and the money.

He raised the crossbow to his shoulder once more. Hahn was arguing with his mercenaries, but Bertrando could make out none of the words. Lip-reading was not one of his skills. _The wind…_ he thought. _Northern… so I have to adjust the aim…_

Sighting maybe a metre above and to the left of Hahn's chest, he relaxed his muscles. Kill him now, and then Marius wouldn't even have to fight. Falshian had said he wanted Marius to succeed.

He had a second to notice the robed woman's head snapping round to stare at him, and then his finger tightened on the trigger.

* * *

"We leave here in his service or not at all," said Spikethorn. "It seems obvious to me, Hahn. And you, Greiger. How will you spend anything when you are lying in a ditch, or floating down the Trebeclez?"

"I will not surrender!" said Grieger. "If I have to cut my way out of here alongside Hahn, then I will find a way!"

"It is not surrender," Edrian said. "It is survival." If this kept up, fighting would be inevitable.

"And what would you know of war, farmer?" Grieger snarled. "You would not know honour if it was staring you in the face."

Edrian stiffened – _Farmer?_ – and his grip on his reins tightened involuntarily. "My background may be lower than yours, _mercenary_," he grated, "but at least I know sense when it is staring me in the face."

"We mean you no harm," said Marius, "but if you fight us, we will kill you all." And by his tone, he might just have been saying that the grass was green – there was no regret, no anticipation, nothing. Just blank, matter-of-fact hardness.

"He speaks the truth," Spikethorn said, "the only way out of here is with him. Against him, we don't stand a chance."

"He means to split us and destroy us," Hahn growled. "They would drive us apart and kill us in isolation."

Stormweaver's head whipped westward, her eyes blazing with cold grey light. Wind whipped from nowhere, lashing at Edrian's face. His shirt flailed madly in the aethyr-spawned gale, and he threw up an arm to shield his eyes.

A flash lanced from the west, curving and spinning as the wind struck at it, before punching deep into Bredick's thigh. The Mace gave a loud roar, his hands going to the crossbow quarrel and the blood welling up around it.

* * *

On the rise to the west, Bertrando swore quietly. That wind had not been natural. His aim had been true. Now, instead of Hahn lying on the ground bleeding out his life, the Mace was merely injured.

He would get no other chances after this. Sooner or later – and most likely sooner – they would find where the quarrel had been fired from. Grunting in frustration, he set about reloading the crossbow.

This time, Hahn would die.

* * *

"Assassination!" snapped Hahn.

"It was aimed at you, Chisan Hahn," Stormweaver nodded, turning to glance at Bredick. "Be grateful, Mace, that it merely struck your leg. If I thought you less useful, it would be between your eyes."

The big mercenary's face twisted in anger. "I warn you, mage-"

"What, Mace?" said Stormweaver, her eyes glinting dangerously. "What would _you_ do to _me_? I can control life itself. I can wrap you in air and flay you with vines. I can rip you limb from limb with a thought, rend your precious muscle from your bones, strip away your very mind. What – _what_ – would you do, Bredick the Mace?"

"And at Fort Aspen?" Grieger snarled. "Where was your _power_ there, Stormweaver?" His hand was on the grip of his pistol, knuckles white.

Edrian looked at Stormweaver. For all her words, he had seen nothing from her at Fort Aspen. No knifing winds, no crushing vines, no roaring fountains of earth. Just crossbows, blackpowder and blood. So much blood staining the stones of the Fort.

She gave Grieger a cool glance, all her anger sluicing away from her face. "It was necessary for me to conserve my power there. Had I taken part, I would have little strength for what is needed."

"And what would that be?" snapped Grieger.

"Today," she said simply. "Now."

Her hand shot out towards Edrian and Marius, her eyes blazing again with those grey fires, and it was as if a brick wall had slammed into Edrian's face. Winds howled, and the grass exploded upwards in a twisted, grasping storm. His horse shrieked in fright, and Edrian felt himself being pushed back by that invisible wall of air, his legs lashed and whipped by the unnatural grass, rain whipping down from the suddenly-black sky that roiled with clouds.

"You will go now." Stormweaver's voice was hard and firm, and carried clearly even over the roar of the weather she had spawned. "The time for talk is ended. Now it is time for battle."

Edrian shot a look at Marius. He was no coward, but she had made it abundantly clear that she could destroy them both without breaking a sweat. To stay would be madness. Even if it did sting at his pride; he would rather be humbled than killed.

Marius nodded, his mouth tight. Doubtless the General had the same thoughts as Edrian had. "We go," said Marius.

Edrian wheeled his horse, kicking it into a gallop towards the Sergettian army, Marius right behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

In time to see a second crossbow quarrel smash into the side of Hahn's head.

The Chalonii General was yanked from his saddle by the impact, the quarrel bursting from the other side of his skull in a fountain of blood and brain matter. His horse reared, screaming, and Hahn's body flopped lifelessly, one foot caught in his stirrup. Stormweaver's winds died instantly as the mage's head snapped round to stare at Hahn's corpse.

Edrian swore, and booted his horse faster. He should have known that the assassin would not just give up after just one shot. Even though he knew Hahn's death would go a long way to eliminating the Chalonii force's cohesion, and maybe even give them victory all on its own, he couldn't help feeling disgust at the way Hahn had died. Assassination wasn't uncommon in the Border Princes, but it seldom touched the battlefield. It made perfect sense to use it, but it violated every sense of honour he could conceive of.

When they reached the Sergettian lines, Edrian wheeled his mount. Stormweaver had command of the Mace, Spikethorn and Grieger; whether through threat or action, he couldn't tell; and was leading them back to the mercenary armies.

He turned to Marius. The General was staring hard at Stormweaver's back, his expression unreadable. His hand was back at his sword – a khopesh, Edrian had heard him call it; whatever that was – though his grip was more relaxed than his stare. "How long?" Edrian asked. There was no need to say until what.

"An hour, at most," said Marius without taking his eyes from the Chalonii. "It depends how quickly Stormweaver can solidify her hold over the mercenaries. She has the Mace cowed – though for how long I can't say – but Grieger won't be so easy. Strength alone isn't much to him."

"And Spikethorn?" By his words, Aulen Spikethorn had been ready to join Marius there and then, but who knew what effect Stormweaver's… display had on him. He could bring nearly six hundred horsemen to the Sergettian army, and it was not so much that as depriving Chalon of those six hundred that would be the largest gain.

"Give him time."

"How much time?" Edrian said. "You said yourself, Stormweaver's going to give us an hour, if that, until it's open battle. We can win, don't get me wrong, but given what she's just done, I don't think we'll be as unharmed as we'd thought."

Marius didn't take his eyes off the mercenaries. "Give him time," he said in that flat voice.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

Edrian watched as the Sergettian horsemen formed up on the flanks, five hundred on each side. They were light cavalry, armed with sabres and pistols, and no mach for Spikethorn's horse on the left, or the Mace's heavy cavalry in the centre, even with the advantage of numbers. Most of them had seen their first taste of battle at Fort Aspen, and none had more than a month of dedicated unit training.

But still, the light cavalry weren't meant to charge into the thick of things. Their job was to encircle and pick off any elements of Hahn's army that could be isolated. Or, at least, that was what Marius had said. To Edrian, it looked painfully like they would simply be smashed aside by Spikethorn and slaughtered by Grieger's crossbows.

The rest of the plan made sense, though. Hahn's deployment was weighted heavily to the west, with almost six hundred horsemen between Spikethorn and the Mace mustered there ready to sweep up the Sergettian army from the flank inwards. The eastern flank was comparatively weak – Grieger's spear-fronted crossbowmen arrayed against the light cavalry and a spattering of infantry with a mix of spears and swords.

Marius had deployed most of the Sergettian handgunners – a full fifteen hundred – along with a good six hundred spears and pikes onto the western flank, and they were just now forming up into the dense formation that would hopefully shatter the Chalonii cavalry charge. That, and the incline that the horses had to climb. The centre of the Sergettian army was home to the majority of the infantry, with over four thousand men arrayed in rough ranks, each armed with a hooked spear and a short sword and armoured in stout leathers under their royal purple surcoats. A long line of the remaining handgunners stretched across the front, ready to fire and retreat as soon as the Chalonii approached close enough.

By any estimation, it should be a slaughter. Edrian was half surprised that the mercenaries hadn't abandoned the battle already.

Marius, it seemed, was undecided on the issue. While organising the army and laying out his plans, he had been adamant that the Chalonii were not to be taken lightly, and now instead of commanding, he was standing at the forefront of the army, bedecked in his full armour, that sword drawn and by his side. Despite his words on his arrival, he appeared to be content to let Edrian call the orders.

Which was not an entirely welcome decision. Edrian was no battle leader, and he knew it. Until a year ago, he had been a farmer, idly imagining what the great battles that floated down through history would have been like. Now he was there on the field, it suddenly didn't seem so romantic and heroic anymore.

The signalmen were behind him; drums firmly grounded, trumpets shining and ready, runners mounted. He gestured vaguely behind him without looking, and someone placed a looking-glass in his hand. He brought it to his eye, and the Chalonii leapt into focus.

They were a ragtag bunch, for the most part. Grieger's men had a vague coherence to them – dark greys and browns were the predominant colours to the east – and he could see the crossbowmen driving stakes hurriedly into the ground in front of them in reaction to the light cavalry opposite them. Of course, from their distance, they would simply be cavalry to them, with no way of telling if they were light or heavy. He spotted Grieger himself, still wearing his wide hat, pacing impatiently in the middle of his men.

At the very back of the Chalonii was Hahn, surrounded by a gaggle of advisors and messengers. The distance was too far to see clearly, but the general's flame-coloured hair was distinctive enough that he didn't need to see any closer to know who it was. With him stood a dozen grey-robed figures, each one tall and willowy. Stormweaver and what had to be her acolytes.

He swept the glass down and onto his own army, seeking Marius. The general was walking up the line of infantry, his mouth moving animatedly. A speech. Edrian had never understood the need for speeches – every man knew what he had to do, and he went and did it, and hopefully most of them came back alive; a few fancy words at the beginning seemed superfluous – but over the battles and skirmishes of the last year, he had learned that his vie was not universal. A good speech saved lives and won battles.

When Marius was done, he turned and looked up at Edrian's position. He raised his sword-arm, then dropped it down. Edrian half-turned towards the trumpeters. "First signal," he ordered. "One."

A loud blare went up from the trumpeters behind him. The sound echoed over the battlefield, and the light cavalry on the western flank spurred their mounts into action. The rode out towards the Chalonii horsemen, five hundred lightly-armoured men with pistols approaching almost double their number of heavily-armed dedicated men who made fighting from their saddles into a career.

They approached at a canter until they were in pistol range; then, almost as one, began a sweeping, fluid turn eastwards to bring themselves back into the Sergettian lines in a gallop. As they passed the Chalonii, each man unloaded his pistol, and a cloud of smoke obscured them before they were all past.

Through the looking-glass, Edrian could see the damage done to the Chalonii cavalry was minimal, at best. Five hundred men firing at long range from moving horses had caused perhaps fifty casualties, including horses. Mostly amongst the Mace's heavy cavalry; Marius had instructed them to avoid dealing heavy damage to Spikethorn's band out of hope that the mercenary might see sense before the battle was over. Dead mercenaries were no good to anyone.

The physical damage, however, was not the intent. Though they had managed to restrain themselves for now, the mercenaries were raging. He waited until the light cavalry was back in position.

"Second signal," he ordered without turning. "One."

Once again, one blast went up from the trumpeters. Once again, the light cavalry on the west delivered a smoke-wreathed ripple of lead into the Chalonii. They would have to move soon. Hahn wouldn't let his cavalry be shot down without retaliation.

"Third signal. Two."

This time, two blasts sounded. The western cavalry started out again, but this time those on the eastern flank moved too. Not towards Grieger's men, but westwards, across the front of the line.

True to Marius' prediction, at the third repetition, Hahn let his cavalry loose. Spikethorn and the Mace led their horsemen out towards the approaching light cavalry with a roar that was audible even over the distance. The light cavalry swerved back, so that they were racing the Chalonii towards the Sergettian lines.

When they reached the musket lines, they split, half moving almost directly west around the lines, the other half going east across the front of the infantry. As the two halves peeled apart, the front rank of handgunners took aim. One rank would fire, then kneel to reload while the rank behind fired, then they would do the same while the third rank fired, then the fourth, by which time the first rank would be ready again. With the pikes in support, Hahn's cavalry would be decimated, and then the eastern light cavalry would arrive to sweep up the remains.

The Chalonii cavalry entered handgun range, riding hard. They knew as well as he that it was charge or be damned at this point. The call went up from the midst of the handgunners to fire-

And then what felt like a wall of solid air struck all across the Sergettian lines like a hammerblow. The moving light cavalry were all but bowled over, with barely a handful able to keep their saddles as the horses stumbled and fell. The handgunners staggered back under the impact, a cry going up-

The Chalonii cavalry hit.

The Mace's lances and Spikethorn's long spears stabbed down with all the force of horse and rider at full gallop, smashing a wedge deep into the infantry formation. Off-balance pikemen couldn't get their weapons down in time, and were ridden down as the mercenaries switched to swords and axes. Handgunners were caught defenceless and slaughtered.

Stormweaver. It had to be her. Not even Marius had suspected she could do something that big, and they were paying for it.

He turned frantically. "Four!" he shouted to the trumpeters. "Four!"

Four desperate hollers echoed out. The order to charge. If they could get into Hahn's infantry, then his cavalry wouldn't be able to ride through them. If. It was a long way to go. Maybe too long. If the Mace and Spikethorn finished with the western flank before they got there…

If they could get to Stormweaver, they could turn it back around.

Lightning crashed, the sky suddenly boiling with clouds, and the grass turned to mud beneath the Sergettians' feet. More winds battered at the charging infantry. They outnumbered Grieger by more than four to one, but it didn't look like they were going to get to him anywhere near intact enough to use it.

Casting the eye of the looking-glass over the charging infantry, Edrian could see Marius at their head, running through the mud as if his armour didn't encumber him in the slightest, no matter that he should be struggling to lift one foot after another between the sludge and the steel. His face alone showed utter stillness; that same calm, unreadable expression on his features despite the headlong charge.

He lowered the glass and looked left, in time to see the last handful of handgunners ran down by the Mace's heavy cavalry. The swarming horsemen regrouped into a vague order; Aulen Spikethorn at the head of his riders, Bredick the Mace to the fore of his own mob of lancers. A dozen from each group had dismounted, and were hurriedly scurrying across the bloody field retrieving any lances and spears still in working condition.

He glanced back at the charge. Almost there. Stormweaver's ethyric gales made them fight for every step, and shrubs and grasses scythed about, tripping soldiers and entrapping limbs. Grieger's crossbowmen sent wave after wave of quarrels into them, scything down rank after rank after rank.

To the west, he glimpsed the Mace raise his huge weapon into the air, with a roar that was faint across the distance. He brought it down, and his cavalry leapt forwards around him, followed after a moment by Spikethorn's. Forwards, straight for Edrian.

The Sergettian infantry reached Grieger's crossbowmen. The stakes stopped most of the impact of the charge, and Grieger's spearmen matched the rest, meeting the Sergettian infantry with a wall of steel blades. Here and there, Edrian saw Sergettians break through the spearmen, only for them to be blasted apart by lightning that cracked down from the sky in blinding white forks or battered to the ground by howling winds and ground that suddenly turned to marsh beneath their feet.

They had begun the day with seven thousand, to Hahn's two thousand. Now Hahn had barely lost half his army, and Edrian would be stupid to hope for any more than three thousand Sergettians left alive on the field. More likely it was even less, and growing more so every second.

And the Chalonii cavalry were mere seconds away from him. Briefly, he thought of sounding an alarm on the signals, but he knew that any distraction now would only rob his infantry of the small chance of survival that they had. The Chalonii weapons glinted dangerously, slicked with Sergettian blood, but Edrian wouldn't let himself be responsible for killing more of his own men.

Then the cavalry hit, and a lance took him through the neck.

* * *

Marius batted aside a spear haft, and sliced his khopesh back across the mercenary's chest, feeling it cut through the tough leathers the man wore. He drove his knee into the man's gut, and pushed himself past the doubled-up spearman, his blade whipping back to hamstring him on the way.

He found his next opponent; a tall, well-muscled man holding an old halberd; and dodged to the side to avoid a heavy downswing. The blow clanged off the armour of his thigh, and he turned with the impact, khopesh slicing out and down. The curved blade hit the halberdier neatly across the wrist, drawing a ragged line of red that made the man cry out, his grip loosening on his weapon. Marius took advantage of it, and slammed his free fist into the side of his skull. The halberdier crumpled.

More pressed in from every side, but Marius refused to let pessimism have any hold over him. He could feel Stormweaver's magicks coursing around him, over him, _through_ him, and a thrill went through him at the thought of someone with that power so close to him.

He hacked his way through the melee, paying no attention to those he killed. He had to reach Stormweaver.

* * *

Chisan Hahn watched as the Sergettians were slowly worn down by Grieger's men. Grieger himself was somewhere in there; he didn't know if the mercenary was dead or alive, and didn't particularly care either way. Behind them, the cavalry had finished mopping up the Sergettian commanders and had begun their charge back down into the infantry.

Beside him, Stormweaver stood in the centre of a circle of her acolytes, arms upraised. Her hair lashed in a wind that touched nothing but herself, and her eyes glowed with a baleful blue-white light. The grass around her feet rose to waist height, whipping about in the same wind that caught her robes and hair.

The sheer scale of the destruction she had wrought was impressive, and appalling. Impressive, because she had almost single-handedly turned the tide of the entire battle; and appalling that one person could control so much power. He had almost not believed her when she told him that she could do this, and now he was sincerely grateful that he had listened and planned accordingly.

His eyes returned to the melee in front of him, and he started when he saw a red figure pushed to the front. His armour was dark crimson, stained darker with blood, and a curved, scimitar-like sword flashed in his hands. His face was uncovered.

_Marius_.

He should have been at the back, slaughtered with the other commanders, not in the thick of the fighting. How he had managed to survive Griger's spears and Stormweaver's winds was an impossibility, but there he was, slicing his way through man after man towards them.

He threw a glance at Stormweaver, but she had already seen. Her eyes flicked down to Marius, and a roaring blast of air hammered into his chest. The Sergettian general staggered, then straightened. Stormweaver frowned, then renewed her attack; sending more lances of air at him and rending the ground around his feet.

Marius' face twisted in a laugh, and the magical attacks rolled off him. A darkness seemed to well up around him, pushing the winds and the roiling earth from his path.

Stormweaver gave a small smile. Lightning stabbed down at Marius, and for all his magical darkness he was forced to dive forwards out of its path. More bolts of lightning cracked out from the clouds at Stormweaver's call, and Marius broke into a roll, coming up roughly in a sprint, the interlocking plates of his armour clanking with his movements.

Four steps, and he was to them. His strange blade cut down two of Stormweaver's acolytes before they even registered he was amongst them, and he had its curved edge against Stormweaver's throat before Hahn's sword was out of its scabbard.

Marius nodded to him. "General," he said cordially, then turned to look at Stormweaver. "Mage. Stop the winds."

Stormweaver's eyes lost their glow, fading back to their blue-shot grey. The gales billowing her robes and hair died. "You are not just a general," she said.

"I am not," he nodded.

"You act surprisingly arrogant for someone who is in danger of being smashed like a child's toy. Even my acolytes could do that."

"Try it." There was no challenge in the words, just a flat statement. "My arm is faster than any of your magicks. You would still die."

Stormweaver was silent for a moment. "Then why don't you kill me now?"

Hahn eased his sword slowly from its scabbard, trying to make as little noise as possible.

"Because I have more important uses for you."

"Important enough that you can lose your entire army?"

"Yes."

Hahn whipped the last inch of his sword from its scabbard and held the blade up to Marius' neck. "Now, Marius," he said. "Back down. You may not be just a man like me, but I can sure as hell kill you like one. Your army is dying as we speak. Surrender."

Marius looked at him. "No."

"I warn you Marius; it is surrender or death."

Marius cleared his throat, ignoring Hahn's blade there. "There are more important issues rearing their heads than the petty squabbling between insignificant princedoms."

"Issues," said Hahn flatly.

"Yes. I need you. I cannot stop the events that are gaining momentum by myself. An army is too noticeable. Four can move faster, and unnoticed."

"Four? And what makes you think we'll go with you instead of just killing you here and now?"

"Because if you don't, I will kill you," Marius said. "Believe me when I say this is bigger than Chalon or Sergetti or any one realm. When she unveils herself once more, the whole world will tremble. And after the invasion from the Wastes, the world cannot fend her off."

"She?" Hahn asked. None of Marius' words made sense.

"The Queen of the Night."

"Never heard of her."

"No," said Marius. "You wouldn't have."

Abruptly, Stormweaver spoke up. "I know the title," she said. Hahn seemed to be the only one who paid any attention whatsoever to the raised swords. "I will go with you."

Marius nodded. Hahn looked at her in disbelief.

"And you, general Hahn?" Marius asked.

"No! I will not give up my life to go on some quest with my enemies, _general_ Marius."

Hooves from behind made him turn. Aulen Spikethorn rode up, his spear still in hand. The blade was covered in blood. "The Sergettians have surrendered," he reported, ignoring Marius.

Hahn threw a hand out towards Marius. "Kill him!" he ordered, and thrust with his sword.

The blade stabbed through Marius' throat and out the other side in a welter of thick blood.

Marius reached up and pulled the sword away from his neck. He turned his head slowly to Spikethorn. "Good. The Mace is dead?"

Spikethorn nodded. "I killed him myself."

_What the hell?_ Marius should be lying on the ground, not talking calmly to Aulen Spikethorn.

"Now, Hahn," Marius said. "Last chance. Stay here with no army and no supplies until Prince Dhiram sends another force to kill you, or come with us."

Hahn grimaced. "Fine," he growled. "I come."


End file.
